


The Phoenix

by existentialflu (sotakeabitofcalpol)



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Basically James being an angsty bugger in Life Born Of Fire, Blood, Character Study, Episode: s02e03 Life Born of Fire, Gen, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspection, Oops, Reference to drowning, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Suicidal Thoughts, existential flu, its quite angsty, with a tiny reference to dead of winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22129990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sotakeabitofcalpol/pseuds/existentialflu
Summary: James Hathaway has fucked up. He knows that. Will never deserved thisA stream of consciousness piece from Hathaway's perspective during Life Born of Fire
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	The Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely love James Hathaway, and because I torture the characters I love, this monstrosity happened. Enjoy.

He though he would have been used to this, by now. Waking up, looking at bodies. This, though, this is different. 

First off, it's in a church, because of course it is. He can spot the blood from a mile off, splashed across the cross, and some piece of paper he can't see the words on. Part of him is furious at that, desecrating a church. 

The other part of him, the side he's been trying so hard not to listen to, applauds whoever the poor bugger is. _Sixteen and burning up bible_ , he thinks, except he's twenty something, and the thought still wants to force its way through.

Second, as he walks in, swagger and some quip that, if it were a smile, wouldn't reach his eyes, it's Will's body. 

A memory, two of them, caught in fickle moonlight, lying on damp grass, staring up at stars. The way Will's eyes had caught that distant light, as if he was born from the very same stars, as he took a swig from the bottle teen James had stolen from his parent's liquor cupboard. He tried to write poems about them, but no words could describe the way that memory felt. 

The eyes that he recognises, but aren't Will's anymore. He runs.

Crouches outside, pulls at the grass. Nervous habit. Destroy something. Chew your thumb, your lip, let blood spill the way Will's had. This is his fault. He sealed his fate. He almost throws up, same as they had, that night, too much alcohol. He wishes this was alcohol, not guilt.

_Gethsemane to Calvary, I lost my way_ , Lewis says. He doesn't really hear any of the rest. _The garden, did you know it?_ He can't.

So he lies, says he doesn't know. Protects ~~them~~ himself. Goes home, drinks till he falls into a sleep that's caught somewhere between dreamless and nightmare. Wakes up after two hours. Goes into work, tries not to show it. Repeats the next day. And the next.

He wears lavender socks to the funeral. He isn't stupid, it's no coincidence. It's an apology, a gift, a promise, to the man who _he_ ended. An admission, to himself, because no one else will be looking for it.

He always did love differently to everyone else. So differently he isn't even sure he does. _You can't help it, this is just how we were taught to love._ Sometimes he wonders if he learnt the lesson wrong. Sometimes, late at night, he wonders if he was ever taught.

(Even later, during another worst few days of his life, he says that everyone had an unhappy childhood. The look he gets in response suggests he's wrong.)

He didn't need to see Will's eyes when he did it, stood in front of that alter, unclean blood over the cross. He sees those eyes every time he looks in a mirror. Maybe he should let his own blood stain a cross. _It will have blood, they say, blood will have blood._

Not for the first time, he relates to Lady Macbeth. Tired of all the blood that should not have stained her hands but did. Words, her weapon and his. Besides, he'll probably meet a similar end.

He almost did, a few times. His mother, realising he was wrong, all the other things he'd brought upon himself during a cursed, wasted dot on the consciousness of the planet, tipping him closer to the edge. Mortal coil and rooftop. Double meanings, triple meanings, six billion meanings in the world now, and more before that. Wasting his life stirring the sand of other people's lives, finding the gold but muddying the river. He could let himself sink into it, fill his pockets with that gold and let the current drag him down. 

Except he ~~deserves~~ ~~ends~~ almost ends in fire. Life born of fire. A stupid, stupid thing he'd said, six feet under in repression and desperate belief. The phoenix, reborn from the flames. Will never deserved this. He wasn't meant to burn in that inferno.

He lives, though. Doesn't deserve to. Finally writes that poem. Leaves it on the grave. An apology, of sorts.

_We assume infernos are of Hell  
But Heaven has its fires  
Mortals never see it as  
It's saved for angel's pyres_

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was an experience to write.
> 
> 'Sixteen and burning up a bible' is from Teen Idol by Marina  
> 'You can't help it, this is just how we were taught to love' is from Boys Like You by Dodie (Maybe a bit out of context)  
> 'It will have blood, they say, blood will have blood' is a quote from Lady Macbeth from Macbeth  
> The poem at the end is something I wrote when I was twelve. It's a little pretentious, but sorta fits. Sorta.
> 
> The religious bit may be a bit OOC, but I can't quite work out his views. I always assumed he was veering away from religion, but that might be projection.


End file.
